


When Daylight Comes We'll Be On Our Own (but for now, I'll hold you so close)

by Salomonderiel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in canon era, the morning before Lamarque’s funeral, just before the dawning of the day upon which Grantaire knows the revolution will begin. Established relationship. Not pain-free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Daylight Comes We'll Be On Our Own (but for now, I'll hold you so close)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LucentPetrichor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucentPetrichor/gifts).



> Based on the song 'Daylight' by Maroon 5.   
> Haven't yet written any canon era stuff for this damn book/musical, so I thought I'd better do some. You might have seen it on tumblr (but I doubt it).   
> For Priya, cos it's all her fault I'm so addicted to these doomed-to-die revolutionaries. So she can take... 47% of the blame.

The mattress rose beneath him, and it was this that woke him. Not the sun, for the sun hadn’t risen yet. Not a gentle touch – never a gentle touch. No, it was the loss of that body from the bed that had broken the safe oblivion of sleep.

He hadn’t gone far. He was standing by the window, the lighter tone of his golden hair barely visible against the slit of black night sky visible between the slit in the curtains.

And it’s so easy to watch him, motionless, to not move and to imagine that if he doesn’t breathe, then time can’t pass.

It’s Enjolras that breaks this peace, this pact with the gods by lighting a candle. He sets it on the table, as he turns and looks for his clothes.

“Don’t,” Grantaire breathes. He hadn’t meant to say it – he never means to say anything, around him, but it’s always so much harder to keep quite. His thoughts have belonged to Enjolras for far too long. “Don’t, don’t...”

Enjolras doesn’t stop, not so much as a moment of hesitation as he searches through the clothes left on the floor, finds and starts pulling on a pair of trousers. “I can’t.”

“Daylight must be hours away-”

“This isn’t some Shakespearean play, Grantaire!” Enjolras yells, and he stops then. Grantaire can’t care that Enjolras is angry at him. If he cared, he doubted that there’d ever be a moment where he could smile. But Enjolras has stopped, and that matters, today. That matters. “We don’t _have_ until dawn, you stupid _drunkard_! We shouldn’t have had last night-”

“Why, do you regret it?” Grantaire asks, and it’s stupid, such a stupid question that Grantaire doesn’t want to know the answer to and Enjolras must know that, because he doesn’t grace it with an answer. “I agree, dawn is of no consequence to us – the funeral isn’t until midday. _We_ have until then. You’re not needed yet, Apollo.”

If there was ever a day that Grantaire wished he could sway Enjolras’ thoughts with his arguments, it would be this day. But if there ever were gods to grant prayers, they’re not listening now, because Enjolras continues to dress himself. “According to you, I’m not needed at all,” Enjolras bites out.

“You’re needed to me.”

It’s always simple truths like that, which manage to capture his leader’s silence, if for a few seconds. “You need nothing but alcohol.”

“I need you.”

“How could a cynic-”

“I need _you_.”

And there’s peace, again. Enjolras standing still, in the centre of his room, half clothed and looking at Grantaire with a now familiar combination of disbelief, hope, and resignation. If there’s no love, then Grantaire will have to pretend. Will be able to pretend, for the few more hours he has.

“See this as I see it, I _beg_ of you,” Grantaire pleads, pushing himself up from the mattress until he’s seated, leaning forwards, sheets lying across his folded legs and clenched into folds by his hands. “All I can see happening today is you going to fight. You, striding off with yours ideal as shields against an army’s very, very _real_ bullets. That’s what I see happening – all I know – you, your _death_ , your blood on these fucking streets-”

“That’s not going to happen,” Enjolras promises, and it’s a promise that’s not within his control, which makes it hurt even more when he moves to step around to Grantaire’s side.

“You’re going to die,” Grantaire said, straight and simple because Enjolras deserves to know this. If he can’t be scared from this path, he can at least be aware of the fate he’s chosen himself. He can’t go in with hope only to become disillusioned. Grantaire can’t see him fall apart along with the death of his dream. He _must know_. “You’re going to die, all of you, all of _us_. That’s what I see. That’s what going to _happen_ when this nights ends, so _please_.” And now Enjolras is close enough to touch, and Grantaire does, grabbing for his hands and holding, holding him _still_ because if they don’t breathe then time stops passing, right?

“This isn’t a Shakespearean tragedy, Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes again, and he still doesn’t believe it but there’s a pain in Grantaire he’s not bothering to hide anymore. It’s easy now, to pull Enjolras down beside him.

“Give me until dawn,” Grantaire begs. “Be mine until dawn, that’s all I ask. Then, you may face as many muskets as you wish. I shall do nothing to stop your progress.”

“To stop our _victory_.”

“Perhaps.” Enjolras doesn’t move, as Grantaire lifts his hands to cup Enjolras’ face, slides his fingers through his hair. He knows how it feels, this action is nothing new, but there’s a new sensation to be found in holding Enjolras like this, so carefully, as if he’s glass – a new emotion behind the gesture, today.

Their lips brush gently, because it’s not about passion. For one, it’s reassurance. For another it’s goodbye. If Enjolras wants to comfort him that’s fine, Grantaire will let him. As long as he gets to memorise the heat of his lips. His taste, the pressure, the movement and the breath from Enjolras’ mouth brushing the cracked skin of Grantaire’s lips. The way Enjolras rests his forehead on Grantaire’s, how their noses touch as Enjolras tilts his head for a better angle as he takes Grantaire’s lips between his teeth and holds it there, gently.

It’s a sweet kiss, a gentle kiss.

“Til dawn,” Enjolras concedes, the words shaped against the skin of Grantaire’s jaw. “You can have me, until dawn.”

Grantaire nods. He presses the palms of their hands together, slips his fingers between Enjolras’ and pulls him back down onto the bed. When Enjolras complains about being clothed, Grantaire teases him about it and lightly pokes him in the ribs. It doesn’t take long for them to be settled, on their sides, the sheet over them and Grantaire’s arms around Enjolras’ waits, holding him in place, holding him still.

Here, like this, he can believe that it’s just another night. He can fool himself into thinking that when dawn comes he won’t crawl away like the coward he is to hide in the bottom of some bottle. And if he tries hard enough, he can pretend that tomorrow, his life won’t end exactly as he’s always known it would – with a bullet to the heart of the man he loves.

So he closes his eyes and presses his face into Enjolras’ shoulder. He dare not look out of the window, to watch the moon fall and the sun rise. He dare not breathe – because if he doesn’t breathe, then time can’t pass. If time can’t pass, Enjolras can’t die.

Enjolras _can’t_ die.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really kind of not sorry. I mean, that song was too good to be left alone.


End file.
